Face—I’m sorry. Skin—I’m sorry.
The aging process happens whether we acknowledge it or not. I am wrinkling. My eyelids and lips are drooping.
Now I am kind to my skin with sunscreen, but not so much when I was younger. During adolescence, I drenched my skin with oil and baked under the sun until I became a human casserole; a change in skin color for the brief summer months. My face was bombarded with makeup, creams, lotions, ointments, and cleansers.
No more flawless face envy. Self-acceptance is not found in a bottle or a syringe or from a scalpel. This old gal accepts the skin she lives in—until I can afford plastic surgery.
Until we chat again, this old bag declares, “Aging is for cheese and wine—not women.”
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